


Curtain Call

by astudyinrose



Series: Hidden in Silence [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Crime Scenes, Language, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach-Related, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to move on and leave his past with Sherlock behind him, but Lestrade is baffled by a series of sniper hits on random civilians and ropes him into the case. Meanwhile, Sherlock recruits one of Moran's men to help him find and stop Moran once and for all. What neither of them realize is that John is in imminent danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to queenofmoriarty for being a detailed and patient beta, and to sherlockdrinkstea for the britpick.

 

* * *

 

When the day has come  
That I’ve lost my way around  
And the seasons stop  
and hide beneath the ground

When the sky turns gray  
And everything is screaming  
I will reach inside  
Just to find my heart is beating

You tell me to hold on  
You tell me to hold on  
But innocence is gone  
and what was right is wrong

_-Bleeding out_ , Imagine Dragons

 

* * *

 

 

John sat back in his chair, staring blankly out the window. There was a sparrow just outside, flitting back and forth at their level and chirping merrily. From his angle, John could see some kind of hawk, circling far above. What was a bloody hawk doing in the middle of London?

The bird of prey was eying the sparrow, which was blissfully unaware of the impending danger. It was waiting for the right moment to strike, when its victim’s complacency was at its pinnacle.

 _That's the right time to go in for the kill, isn't it?_   John thought. _When the victim isn't_ _looking. When they are content, living in sunlight and breathing the free air. They ll never expect the death blow._  

Suddenly the hawk tucked its wings, starting to dive. 

“John. John?” Lestrade was saying, waving his hand across John’s face. John blinked, his vision refocusing into the room. He adjusted slightly in his chair.

“I-- I’m sorry, Greg. What were you saying?”  Lestrade frowned. _Shit_. How long had he been talking when John wasn’t listening?

“I was _saying_. _.._ that I would like you to join us, here at the Yard. I know you have been working at the surgery for the past couple of years, but I could use your expertise and experience.” He eyed John expectantly.

John shook his head, trying to clear it. Of all the reasons Greg might have called him in here, he definitely hadn't been expecting this. “You want me to work at Scotland Yard? Are you bloody serious? Why the hell would I want to do that, after what the Yard did to Sherlock? Scratch that. Why would _you_ want _me_ , when everyone thinks I was part of his ‘hoax’?”

Lestrade closed his eyes, massaging his temple with two fingers. “You know I don’t still believe that, John. And anyway, no one-- even those who believe Sherlock was a fake-- ever thought you were in on it. To them, you were another ‘unfortunate victim’ of his.”

John must have looked like a man on the edge of tipping over into fury, because Lestrade held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down, John. I'm not saying that’s what I think. Jesus, mate, after all this time?” 

John just lifted his chin slightly. _Always._

“No thanks, Detective Inspector. Was there anything else?”

Lestrade sighed. He stood up, picking up a file and walking around the side of his desk, leaning against it to face John.

“There’s a reason why I’m asking you specifically, John. Surely you are aware of the Primrose Hill Sniper case?” He handed John the file.

John’s interest was piqued in spite of himself. The case had been all over the news: in the past three months, three different civilians had been picked off by a sniper in broad daylight. The murders were scattered in different locations around London, and always on the 15th day of the month. The first one had been at Primrose Hill, and the name had stuck. He sat up in his chair, opening the file and starting to browse its contents.

Lestrade hesitated slightly. “We have reason to believe that he was trained in a military-grade technique, and this bloke isn’t green--”

John interrupted him. “Based on this, I'd say he was active in Afghanistan or Iraq, probably a few years ago—maybe even around the time of my tour. He could be a veteran, trained ages ago and fought somewhere else, but according to this info, his skills are still honed enough that he must have been active recently. He isn’t just a mercenary; their skills are too rough around the edges, like their training. He's a pro. He also has the markers of someone who was trained well, but has settled into his own style. He always picks targets in broad daylight, and he has the exact same profile in terms of day and time. Very formulaic. He wants us to anticipate the next attack, but not know who or where. Which means he has a huge flaw: hubris. He wants an audience.”

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully, obviously impressed. “That was… amazing, John. He would have been proud.”

 _Fuck._ John tried not to let the shards of pain twisting through his stomach enter his expression. He ducked his face, pretending to read.

A shadow must have visibly passed over John’s face despite his efforts. Looking slightly uncomfortable, Lestrade cleared his throat and moved on quickly. “The preliminary forensic analysis is that he was shooting from up to 1500 meters, which is almost an impossible range in terms of accuracy with a Winchester. Yet he always shoots them square in the middle of the forehead. Pure talent.” 

“Motive?” John said curtly, continuing to read. 

“None apparent.”

John frowned. “Victims?”

Lestrade rubbed his face with one hand. “No help there. They appear to be completely random. No link. The only thing that is similar in each case is that they all seem to occur at 7:08 am on the dot.” 

John was half-listening as he was reading the file. Suddenly he sprang up, almost knocking Lestrade over. “No. It--it can’t be,” John stammered.

“What? What is it, John?” Lestrade asked apprehensively. 

John was staring down at the photo of the bullet that had been extracted from one of the victims’ skulls. It had the exact same markings on it as the bullet Mycroft had shown him. The one that had been used to shoot Sam Rosewood.

“John?” Lestrade asked again. 

“These markings. Are they on all three of the bullets?” John said, not lifting his gaze from the photo. 

“Yes, actually. Do you know what they mean? Our best cryptographers have been on it for weeks and we can’t seem to make anything of it.” 

“No, I don’t know what the symbols mean. For all I know it's gibberish. But I do know who your sniper is, and you aren’t going to like it,” John said, still in disbelief. He raised his eyes to look into Lestrade’s. “It’s Sebastian Moran, a known associate of Moriarty. Might have even been his second-in-command. According to a high-level government official who shall remain nameless.”

Lestrade exhaled loudly, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. “You’re right, I don’t like it. I’m going to have a hell of a time convincing the chief inspector that the ‘fake’ criminal Moriarty had a real lieutenant, and that he’s our sniper. How the hell do you know that anyway?” 

“He… he shot my friend Sam Rosewood, in Afghanistan. Remember the Phantom Ring murders? Annie Rosewood? She went insane after Sam’s death, and blamed all of the doctors in our division for it. That’s why she went on the killing spree. And it turns out that he was murdered by a sniper; in fact, it was Moran. They extracted a bullet just like this from Sam’s head.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to stare in disbelief. “Why would Moran--or Moriarty for that matter--want your mate killed?”

John shook his head. “I have no idea. I told Sherlock, but I it was right before…” John cleared his throat, remembering Sherlock’s look of horror when he had told him about the bullet. The next day, he was gone. 

John shook his head, pacing. He thought about all the facts of both cases, trying to think how Sherlock would.

“Shit,” John said, suddenly. “The first murder was at Prim _rose_ Hill, and the victim was found in a grove of trees. Or, a wood. Moran’s first known victim was _Rosewood_. This can’t be a coincidence. Moriarty was always extremely symbolic about this stuff."

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said, looking stunned. He moved back behind his desk to sit down. 

John paused. “Wait, what was that you said about the time of each of the shootings?” He was starting to feel a foreboding deep in his stomach.

Lestrade groaned, slumping back slightly as realization dawned. “I hadn't even thought..."

"Greg," John said through his gritted teeth.

Lestrade looked up at him with hesitation (and a bit of pity) before he said, "7:08 am.” 

They stared at each other, not needing to say it aloud. That was the exact time at which Sherlock had jumped from the roof. On June 15th.

After several moments, John swallowed loudly. “I think I better help you with this one, Greg. But I won’t join the Yard. Just consulting. Like we— _I_ — used to.” 

Lestrade looked like he was about to protest, but thought better of it and nodded.

 

* * *

_British Patrol Base_   
_Nahr-e Saraj district, Helmand Province, Afghanistan_

The man was dressed in British fatigues and tied up to a chair. Taller than Sherlock as well as broad-shouldered, he had the muscular tone of someone who has long served in the military. His chestnut hair was cropped, and his green eyes stared forward adamantly, refusing to look at his captor.

Sherlock, who was also dressed in fatigues, sat twirling a knife in his hand and watching the man contemplatively.  They were in an old aircraft hangar, which was almost completely dark except for one light on the far end.  It lit Sherlock from behind, giving him the added benefit of leaving his face in shadow.

He hadn’t touched his prisoner. Not yet. Psychological torture was often the most impressive means of extracting information. The anticipation of the pain can be worse than real pain. But this man was a soldier of the highest order, trained in these techniques. It might take more than that.

At length, Sherlock spoke. “So, William Blackwood, isn’t it?” Blackwood didn't respond. Sherlock smiled and went on.

“Why is Moran hiding behind his sniper rifle in London? Claiming victims once a month, at the exact time I ‘died’?” 

The man lifted his chin in defiance.

 _Not going to play?_ Sherlock decided to let out the lure a bit.

He shrugged. “It's obvious. He’s trying to bait me. He’s discovered I’m still alive, somehow. I've trailed him all over the world for the past two and a half years, it was only a matter of time. But really, does he think I’m that idiotic? To fall for his trap and run to London? Tedious.”

Blackwood continued to stare blankly.

Sherlock stood and started pacing. “So you're on your third tour here. Have you been a mole this whole time? Or did Moran recruit you before you were even in the military?” The man held himself slightly higher in his seat, still silent.

_Aha, now we're getting somewhere._

_Pride. He thinks himself above them. Has a moral compass._

Sherlock stopped, cocking his head to the side. He scrutinized every muscle, every modicum of evidence in the man's stature. Time to go in for the kill.

“You were about 18 years old when they found you. Your mother-- no, older sister-- was terminally ill. She was the last of your family. You came from nothing, and your parents both died, leaving you nothing. Moran recruited you to be his right-hand man in exchange for paying for your sister’s medical bills. He loves exploiting people’s weaknesses; that is, their compassion and love for another. You have never been ideologically inclined to their cause. In fact, a couple of years ago you tried to get out, once you saw their true goals and methods. That’s when they took your sister captive and they have been holding her as collateral ever since, to keep you from talking. Long after Moran left his post here.”

For a split second, the man’s face turned to surprise and then confusion before reverting to his blank stare. _  
_

“You’re wondering how I could possibly know all of that.” Sherlock’s mouth slid slowly into a grin. He kept pacing, twirling the knife. His army boots echoed in the empty hall.

“You're in the same division that… a friend of mine was in, before he was wounded and discharged. If my math is correct, you were here in Afghanistan during the skirmish in which Sam Rosewood was killed. Moran shot him in the head in cold blood. You’re going to tell me why. And then you’re going to help me find him, because my efforts to catch him alone have been futile.”

The man’s mouth twitched slightly. _Why in bloody hell would I do that?_ his expression said. Sherlock smirked, and twirled the blade again. “In exchange, there’s something I can do for you.” Blackwood’s eyebrows arched slightly.

Sherlock walked behind him, using the knife to slice through Blackwood’s bonds. “Shall we begin?”

 

* * *

John stared down at the lifeless body of the teenage girl in the gardens of St. John's Wood Church, a ghost of a smile still on her face. She had never seen it coming.

He felt sick to his stomach.

Lestrade shifted on his feet next to him. “Well, John?”

“Bloody _hell_ ,” John swore under his breath.

Why would Moran murder this innocent girl? Moments like this reminded him why he was never as good at this as Sherlock. Sentiment. He couldn't divorce myself from his emotions. What did Sherlock say at Dartmoor? _Grit on the lens. Fly in the ointment._

John rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn't just look at the body as an object, as details to examine. He saw the girl. A young girl whose life was snuffed out far too soon. 

“What?” Lestrade asked, louder.

“I just... can’t believe this. Why her? Why any of them?” John was shaking his head. The girl was the second victim since John had been on the case, and they still had no new leads to speak of. Sherlock would have figured all of this out by now. They knew it was Moran and that it had something to do with Sam Rosewood and Sherlock, but they had no idea what. All they knew was that he was going to attack every 15th day of the month at 7:08 am. But not where, or whom.

It’s not as if they could tell the whole city to hide… though maybe they should. 

“You tell me, mate,” Lestrade answered, handing him some rubber gloves. He nodded slightly before striding over to help Donovan manage the press, which was now taking photographs from behind the police tape. 

John closed his eyes, breathing in and out. _It’s just a piece of evidence, Watson. Caring isn’t an advantage._ He opened his eyes and crouched down, putting on the rubber gloves. He cocked his head to the side, looking at her with his doctor's eyes. Cause of death was a single sniper shot, right in the middle of her forehead. Just like all the other sniper victims. Just like all the doctors in the Rosewood case. It was too much of a coincidence.

_Sherlock would say that there are no coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy._

He reached down gingerly to lift her head up and turn it, examining the size of the exit wound through her blood-matted blond hair. She definitely hadn't been shot from as long a range as the previous victims, but it was hard to tell beyond that. He carefully placed her head back in its original position.

A cursory glance over the body showed nothing out of place. She was wearing a dark blue wool coat, and she still had her purse slung over her shoulder. She had been taking a walk with a friend (who was currently sobbing uncontrollably while being interviewed by a steely-eyed officer nearby). John checked the contents of her purse just to be thorough. Everything still there. Credit cards, money, ID. Unsurprising. None of the other victims had read as muggings gone wrong either.

He sat back on his heels, sweeping his eyes over her and the immediate surrounding area. _Think like Sherlock. What would he do, if the body has no immediate clues?_

John closed his eyes, letting the chatter of the police and bystanders fade to the background. He tried to go to a place of peace and let his mind work, the way Sherlock had described to him once. Eventually everything fell silent, except he could hear a bird twittering in the background.

A bird. Bird’s nest.

_Sherlock would try to find where Moran shot from._

John opened his eyes and looked upwards. There were no tall buildings nearby with a full view other than the church. That must be where Moran had perched.

John stood, peeling off the gloves, and wandered over to Lestrade who gave him an expectant look. John shook his head. Lestrade’s face fell slightly before he attempted a smile. 

“I’m going to go check out the tower of the church, if that’s alright,” John said, cocking his head toward the building. 

Lestrade’s expression turned to vague curiosity. “Alright, John. The grounds manager should be able to let you in.” 

When John finally reached the tower of the church, he walked over to the window facing the gardens. He crouched down into a sniper’s position as if he were aiming a rifle, the barrel of which rested on the window. There was a perfect view of the body, and the trajectory of her fall was exactly right for a shot from this angle. Perfect.

John stood and scanned the room, looking for any iota of evidence Moran might have left behind. He was a professional soldier as well as a professional criminal, so the chance was slim, but it was worth a shot. 

After a few minutes, John went back to the windowsill, running his hand along the pane. Then he saw it. In the wood, on the side panel, was a fresh carving: a “6" and an "M.” He touched it with his fingers. Dry. The rest of the wood was wet from the rainfall that morning. John scanned all over the rest of the windows. Nothing else. 

John took a picture of it with his camera phone, then hurried downstairs.

Lestrade was chatting with Anderson and Donovan about 20 yards away from the body, within the police tape. They all turned to watch as he ran up to them.

“I found this in the location where Moran must have perched,” he huffed, showing them the photo.

“That could have been anyone. Kids, vandalism,” Anderson said bluntly, crossing his arms. 

“No, look at the wood-- it’s fresh, from today. These windows are open to the air. The carving would have been wet because of the rain at 6 am. But it's dry. Which means it must have happened in the last hour. And how could it be that kind of coincidence? M for Moran?”  They all continued to look at him incredulously. “Greg, have any of the other locations from which Moran could have targeted his victims been identified?” 

Lestrade thought a moment, his arms crossed. “Yes, one.” John nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Realization started to dawn on Lestrade’s face. “Two months ago. The one in November, right before I asked you to help. The sniper was in an abandoned office building. On the window someone had spray painted an ‘8’ and an ‘M.’ But we thought it was some kids. We never thought that it was related to this.” 

John scrunched his forehead slightly. He paced a few meters, and came back. “8,” he muttered. “6.” After a few repeats of this, he halted. “It’s a countdown,” he murmured.

“What?” Anderson said loudly, clearly piqued.

John glared at him. “It’s a countdown. The ‘8’ was left at the spot where he shot the third victim. The ‘6’ at the fifth. It’s counting down, month by month, until it reaches one. Which would be in…” he squinted, rubbing his forehead, thinking. Then his face turned to shock at the same time Lestrade put his hand to his own head in disbelief.

John opened his mouth, but no words came out. He turned on his heel and walked straight out of the garden.

Donovan and Anderson turned to look at Lestrade.

“What the hell was that?” Donovan said.

Lestade ran his hand through his hair, sighing, watching John leave. “June. June 15. The third anniversary of Sherlock’s death. He is counting down to that date as the final murder."

 

* * *

_Berlin_

Sherlock had his feet up on the desk in the shabby flat which overlooked a bustling street. There was nothing in the room but the desk, two chairs, and bits of pinstriped wallpaper which had peeled off the walls and fallen to the floor. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he had on one ear of headphones which were plugged into some equipment. The chatter was in German, which was easy for him to understand, but they weren’t currently discussing anything substantial.

Sherlock took one last drag of his cigarette before smashing the stub into the windowsill. He took another one out of his pocket and lit it, taking a long pull. 

He watched the passersby out the window. Berlin was an extreme example of the dichotomy between old world and new. So much of the city had been destroyed in the World Wars and then during the Soviet occupation, and many of the buildings (especially in east Berlin) had been built in the past twenty years. It was all black and white and steel; sleek, stark, and modern. Lacking emotive quality. The people still struggled with their shame, and their pride. The myriad memorials to victims of the Nazi regime in the shadows of their great monuments to capitalism evidenced that. 

He heard the door open and close behind him, Blackwood’s distinct footsteps into the room.

“Anything?”

Sherlock blew out the smoke in a long stream, pulling his headphones down around his neck. “Not yet. Good job, though, hiding the bug in the chandelier. They’ll never find it. They don’t seem the types to do a thorough _dusting_.”

“How do you--? Never mind,” Blackwood said, shaking his head as he walked over and held out a cup of takeaway coffee. Sherlock shrugged, taking it but putting it down on the desk without drinking. Blackwood sat down in the empty chair, taking a long drink from his own cup.

“Problems?” Sherlock said indifferently, flicking some ash out the window.

“None. Just told them my assignment in Afghanistan was over, and I wanted to get in on their operation here.”

“Human trafficking base. Stopover point for bringing women from the east. Russia, mostly.”

He saw Blackwood nod out of the corner of his eye. “And this is definitely the last place they were holding Angie. One of them was taunting me about it.”

Sherlock smashed the end of the second cigarette into the windowsill, watching a man walk away from him, down the street. Blond. Soldier gait. Not especially tall. He looked so similar to... him. If Sherlock turned off his empirical brain for a moment, he could almost imagine that it was.

 _Just hold on a little longer, John. I'm so close._  

“Holmes?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to Blackwood. "Why did you decide to trust me? You'd strike me as the kind of bloke who works alone, trusts no one." 

Sherlock watched him carefully. "I didn't. Not at first. And I used to only work alone."

"What changed your mind?"

Sherlock didn't respond, instead picking up his coffee and returning his gaze to the street. Blackwood watched him with mild curiosity before shrugging and letting it lie.

He settled back, mirroring Sherlock’s position of repose and putting his feet up in the desk. “Now what?”

Sherlock pulled out another cigarette. “Now we wait.”

 

* * *

John stared down at the tea in his hands, his shoulders hunched over. Ten days had passed since victim number nine. A middle-aged man this time. John felt personally responsible, though it wasn’t his fault. But it haunted him that he still hadn’t cracked it and that Moran was still out there, picking off citizens one by one. His insomnia was back. Or worse than ever. It had never really gone away. 

Someone sat down opposite him. He didn’t look up. 

“Hello, John.” 

“Piss off,” John growled. Even after three years, the man’s voice still made John want to punch him in the nose. 

“Pleasant to see you as well,” Mycroft’s voice said. John downed some more of his tea, glaring avidly at the formica tabletop. 

Mycroft seemed unfazed. “I gather that you have told Lestrade about Moran, but he hasn’t told anyone about Moran’s connection with Moriarty.” John remained silent.

Mycroft seemed to take this for assent and continued. “The fact that Moran is counting down to the final victim on the anniversary of Sherlock’s death worries me.” 

John grunted, completely unsurprised that Mycroft knew that detail though it had been kept from the press.

“Very well, if you won’t speak, at least listen. There is something I never told you about that day, John,” Mycroft said, then hesitated. John remained taciturn and indifferent.

“I have reason to believe that Moran was... present, th day Sherlock and Moriarty died. The fact that these events are leading to the anniversary of that day would seem to indicate that he has some unfinished business here.” 

John raised an eyebrow.

“You, John,” Mycroft said slowly. “He might have come back for you.”

John finally let his gaze lift to meet Mycroft's, his stomach churning. _All of this… all of these murders… all of those innocent lives lost... it was because of me? Fuck._  

“W-why? Why would he come back for me? Why do I matter?” 

Myroft’s lips were set in a firm line. “Just promise not to put yourself in danger.  If Moran still hasn’t been caught by June 15, stay in your flat. Please.” John watched him, the fear and anger still pitted in his stomach. Mycroft seemed more worried than he had ever seen him. 

“Alright,” John lied, drinking the last of his tea.

 

* * *

 _Farmland outside of Eindhoven, Netherlands_  

 

“Holmes? Holmes," a voice whispered in the darkness. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Sherlock cracked a bleary eye. 

“You were having a nightmare, mate,” Blackwood murmured, crouched by Sherlock’s side. “Didn’t want to wake you, since you hardly sleep... but you were making a helluva racket. Scaring the cows.” Sherlock nodded, and slowly sat up. They had been squatting in the loft of a barn for two days, and at this juncture Sherlock couldn’t fathom why anyone in sound mind would ever choose to sleep in a haystack.

He rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about the nightmare. He had been running down an empty street towards John, who was walking away from him. Sherlock screamed John’s name repeatedly, trying to warn him, but John kept walking, apparently unable to hear. Finally, John turned around and smiled when he saw Sherlock-- and at that exact moment, a sniper shot John through the head. His body ricocheted backward and slammed into the sidewalk. _John! John! No!_ Sherlock had screamed, sprinting towards the body...

“My turn to keep watch anyway,” Sherlock mumbled. Blackwood helped him up, and Sherlock stretched.

“Who’s John?” Blackwood asked nonchalantly as he started pulling off his holster.

Sherlock averted his eyes. “No one.” _I must have been screaming in my sleep again. Idiot._

Pause. “Didn’t sound like no one. You yelled his name a few times, and then…”

“Then _what_?” Sherlock snapped. Blackwood hesitated, as if he didn’t want to continue.

Sherlock raised his head, and Blackwood was looking at him with what almost looked like pity. “Then you said something like, ‘John, please, don’t leave me,’” he said, hesitating. “And then you said “‘I love you,’” he finished uncomfortably, as if he were guilty for overhearing something so private. 

Sherlock set his mouth in a thin line in his best impression of Mycroft and turned away, walking over to the large loft window and sitting on the sill. He pulled out a cig and lit it, glancing out at the dark pasture in front of him. 

“Holmes. Who’s John?” _  
_

Sherlock just shook his head. Blackwood sighed and crossed his arms. “You know mate, I know you like to put on a face of complete indifference. You want to seem cold and uncaring, because you think it makes you stronger. But it doesn’t, and you aren’t. Moriarty forced you fake your death by threatening your friends, right? Was John one of 'em?”

Sherlock just took another drag. If he remained taciturn long enough, Blackwood would usually leave him be.

Not this time, apparently. “Remember when I asked why you trusted me? I know what it was now.” 

“Oh? Enlighten me,” Sherlock quipped, rolling his eyes.

Blackwood lifted his chin, unfazed. “It’s because you know that my only motive is to save Angie. Most of Moran’s minions couldn’t care less about anyone but themselves. What was it you said once? ‘Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator.’ Do you really think I will think less of you for loving someone?” 

Sherlock cocked his head, looking over his shoulder to glance at Blackwood before turning back. “I’m impressed, Will. And here I thought you were just... what is the phrase? ‘The Muscle.'"

Blackwood smirked. “See, there you go again, going on the offense and throwing out barbs to make me back off. Believe it or not, I was trained in psychology when I was recruited to the elite sniper division. You can tell a lot about how a man is going to move and react when you understand the human psyche. I learned how to see a man’s defenses, his vulnerabilities. You have the best bleeding defense mechanisms I have ever seen, mate.”

Sherlock blew smoke out in a long trail. The enormous moon was just over the horizon, and it had an orange tint to it.

“The only reason I ask is because… if we are going to do this, I need to know what your true motivations are. Just like you know mine. We have to have each others’ backs out there, mate. I’m not used to working this way, either. But it would put my mind at ease if I knew you were doing this for... John, not for revenge.”

“Well I _do_ exist solely to put your mind at ease.”

“ _Sherlock_.” It was so similar to how John used to convey his annoyance that it made Sherlock inhale sharply. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. _This is because of you, John. I have never been able to go back, truly, to complete indifference. I care too much. It shows to people who know where to look._  “Alright, Will.” Blackwood walked a few steps toward him, leaning against the barn wall.

Sherlock sighed. “John was-- is-- the only thing in my life that I have ever truly been proud of. Just because he wanted to be with me. He’s the most altruistic human being I have ever known. Though he would certainly object to this assessment, he saved me. He pulled me out of my darkness. I was a drug addict. I was isolated. Indifferent. I had pulled the wool over my own eyes enough to believe I preferred that existence. Before him. I was able to see all the finite minutia of life to excruciating detail, but he showed me that I had never truly observed.” 

He took another drag of the cigarette, opening his eyes and nodding toward the large harvest moon. “I see that as a simple optic phenomenon of light wavelengths. But John would see its beauty, the way the orange light illuminates the fields below. He would try to make me see it too.”

He smashed the cigarette against the side of the barn with more aggression than was strictly necessary. “In truth, I hadn’t known I was capable of harboring this kind of sentiment for another human being. I thought that my brain, my intellect, the ability to solve mysteries that are incomprehensible to the masses, was the epitome of existence. To me, emotional entanglements were inconvenient, unnecessary, and tiresome. I was blissfully unaware of how wrong I was. I was... never truly living before I met him.”

He turned slightly, glancing down at Blackwood, who was staring avidly at his feet. His face was in shadow. “So in answer to your question: yes. The only motivation I have had for three years is to make my way back to John. Problem?”

Blackwood simply glanced up at him for a moment, then shook his head.

 

* * *

John carefully put on his Scotland-Yard-issued body armor, placing his gun in his holster, then put his own jacket on top. He started towards the door, where Lestrade was waiting.

“Are you sure about this, John?” Lestrade asked quietly, his face full of concern. "I don't like this. I don't like it at all."

“It has to be right. There is nowhere else he would choose as the last murder location. Not today,” John muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Lestrade. _Rosewood (the grove at Primrose Hill) was where it all began. St. Bart’s is where it ends. Even though I couldn’t stop any of the other murders, I can at least try and stop this one. I’m a soldier. It’s just another battle._

John had snuck out of his house early that morning by walking across the roof to an abandoned house so that he could escape Mycroft’s detail. He felt a nagging sense of guilt, but he had to do this.

“No, John, that’s not what I meant,” Lestrade said, putting his hand on John’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to go out there yourself? You know we have men who can do this, men who are still on active duty. We will have them lining all the roofs in the area and manning the parking lot. We will make sure that as many as possible are out of sight, so we don’t scare him off.” 

John shook his head grimly. “No. I have to be out there. I can’t explain it. This is all connected somehow. Sam Rosewood. Moran. Sherlock. Me. St. Bart’s. It’s all converging on today.” He busied himself with adjusting the kevlar under his coat. He would never tell Lestrade, but he wanted to put himself out there as bait. The place would be swarming with police, and Moran would smell it a mile away. _But if I put myself out there, he might take the bait and try to shoot me. Then they might have a chance of isolating his position and bringing him down. No one else can die because of me._

He only half-admitted it to himself, but despite Myroft’s protectiveness, he didn’t really care anymore if he lived or died. At least this created a situation of finality. He would be protecting the innocent, and if he died in the process, it was inconsequential. _At least I’ll be with Sherlock again._

Lestrade looked visibly upset. “I understand, John. I just… You’re my mate. I’m worried about you.  Especially after Sherlock…” he shook his head. “Just… don’t get yourself killed, alright?” His forehead wrinkled. 

John set his jaw. He swallowed, and nodded. Automatically settling into a soldier’s stance, he left the room and Lestrade followed.

 

* * *

_Cologne_

Sherlock was half-crouched behind a newsstand, watching the building down the street through his binoculars.  Blackwood was sitting back on his heels several yards away, silent. They were both in non-descript pseudo-military gear. 

No movement. The guard on the top floor was stationary. Sherlock checked his watch. Eight minutes until the guard change. His tertiary phone buzzed-- the one he kept solely for the purpose of getting headlines from home.  He pulled it out of his pocket to turn it off, but stopped when he saw the byline. Disbelief and shock leaving his jaw slack, he opened the alert.

 

FORMER ARMY DOCTOR LATEST VICTIM OF PRIMROSE SNIPER

LONDON-- Dr. John H. Watson, who was wounded in a sniper attack early this morning outside of St. Bart’s Hospital, suffered major blood loss and has succombed to his wounds. He was declared dead at 8:12 am.

Dr. Watson had accompanied Scotland Yard to the parking lot of St. Bart’s Hospital, which had been cleared of civilians in an attempt to prevent another deadly sniper attack. At exactly 7:08 am, the sniper shot an officer (whose name is being withheld) in the arm. Dr. Watson, who was a trained field surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and had served in Afghanistan, immediately started to tend to the officer’s wounds. The sniper then fired three more shots. The first shot was to Dr. Watson’s chest, which resulted in no injuries as he was wearing a kevlar vest. He flattened himself over the wounded officer as two more shots were fired. Dr. Watson was wounded in the shoulder and the leg before a brigade of officers surrounded Dr. Watson and the wounded officer, preventing them from further attack. 

The Primrose Sniper has now claimed a staggering ten victims, all of whom were murdered at the exact same time in the morning, 7:08 am, and on the same day of the month- the 15th. Scotland Yard has been unable to decipher any patterns or leads, and Detective Inspector Lestrade had enlisted the help of former consulting detective Dr. Watson to solve the case. This was the first time the sniper has fired more than once, and also the first time he failed to kill his victims instantly. 

Dr. Watson was a colleague of the notoriously-fraudulent consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, who incidentally died on this exact date three years ago. Holmes committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bart’s, falling to his death in the precise location where Dr. Watson was shot.

Dr. Watson left only one surviving family member, Harriet Watson. She was unavailable for comment. 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade gave an emotional statement outside the hospital to announce Dr. Watson’s death. “John Watson’s heroism cannot be understated. We are all deeply grieved for the loss of an unparalleled friend and colleague…” 

 

Sherlock couldn’t stand to read further. His satellite phone started to ring, and he took it out of one of the zipper pockets on his calf. _Mycroft._ With trembling fingers, he opened the back of the phone. He pulled out a small chip and snapped it in two, then he dropped the phone on the ground, smashing it with his heel. Then he crouched, holding his head with both hands, trying for all the world to keep himself from falling to pieces-- and failing. He could feel Blackwood’s eyes on him, questioning. Sherlock had never been this emotive in front of him.

_John, no. John, I was so close, we were so close, I could have returned to you so soon. I failed you. God, John. John. I can’t breathe._

After several minutes, he raised his head. He rose to his feet, a dark rage already starting to overtake his body.  _Good. It will make this easier. It will all be over soon._

The guard in the window was gone. He met Blackwood’s worried gaze and nodded firmly, pulling his gun from his waistband, cocking it, and starting to pace forward. His mind was already shifting and settling into new motive: revenge. 

 

* * *

John felt the pain first. It seeped through his unconscious state and radiated through his whole body like a thousand knives, without a direct source. He felt like he was just below water and fighting to get to the surface, but not quite making it. There was some disconcertingly recognizable sounds around him. Eventually his mind surfaced enough that he was hearing words, but not internalizing their meaning. Everything was going in and out of focus. 

“I can’t believe I had to do this again, Mycroft.” A woman’s voice. Distressed. Familiar. 

“It’s just temporary. To keep him safe. You can do it for him-- for them-- can’t you, Molly?” 

“Yes.” Pause. “Have you gotten a hold of him?” 

“No. The satellite phone seems to have been destroyed, as we can’t even locate a signal. His last known location was Cologne...”

John tried to speak, to move, but he slipped back into the black oblivion.

 

* * *

Sherlock moved stealthily through the bedraggled garden, his gun trained in front of him. He flattened himself against the wall next to the open doorway and Blackwood, his eyes still full of concern, pressed himself up against the opposite side. After a long moment, Sherlock nodded.

In a flash, Blackwood kicked in the door and there was a shout as he ran inside. Sherlock peeked around the corner. Blackwood was grappling with a large man who was wielding a hunting knife, and another guard was running down the stairs. Without hesitation, Sherlock turned and shot the second man in the forehead.

At the same time, Blackwood had finally gotten the large man into a chokehold, so Sherlock strode over and pulled him up by the hair until he was looking in Sherlock’s eyes.

“How many of you are there?” Sherlock said in French, his ears still pricked, listening for more backup. Their recon had told them that there were only four people in the house at the moment, but it didn’t hurt to be sure. Most likely the final guard had Angie in one of the rooms upstairs.

Instead of responding, man just spit in Sherlock’s face. For a moment, Sherlock didn’t move, then he dug the barrel of the gun into the man’s chin.

“You are trying my patience,” Sherlock said quietly. “Now, why don’t you tell me where Moran is, and how you get in touch with him, and I might _consider_ letting you live."

“I’m not telling you anything,” the man said in French. Sherlock rolled his eyes, reaching in the man’s pocket for his phone. He checked the last received and sent messages. Satisfied, he looked up at Blackwood again.

“Put him against the wall,” he ordered in English, stepping back and keeping his gun trained on the man’s head. “Hands up.”

Blackwood hesitated. “Sherlock... did something happen? To John?”

Hearing the name was like a scorching iron on every nerve in his body, and Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch. He shook his head. “Just _do it,_ ” he said through gritted teeth, and Blackwood obeyed.

As he stepped away, he continued to watch Sherlock. “Sherlock, we have what we need from him. We can just tie him up and leave him here," he said.

“You know English, don’t you?” Sherlock said, ignoring Blackwood.

The man’s eyes flicked from Sherlock to Blackwood, and he nodded.

“Tell him how many times you have tortured and raped Angela Blackwood,” Sherlock said, reverting to English. He could feel Blackwood cringe next to him.

The man watched Sherlock nervously. “I…”

Sherlock checked his gun to show that it was loaded, then trained it on the man again. “You were saying?”

The guard gulped. “Too many… not count,” he replied in halting English.

Keeping his eyes trained on the man, Sherlock said, “Do you still think he should live, Will?”

Blackwood was silent.

Sherlock glanced at him. Blackwood's forehead furrowed as he coldly watched the man in front of him. "So I thought," Sherlock said. 

At that moment, the man pulled a knife out of his boot and rushed toward Sherlock.

With dispassionate ease, Sherlock shot him between the eyes.

Blackwood remained completely still, watching Sherlock with shock. Sherlock cocked his head, moving toward the stairway, holding his gun in front of him again.

The rest of the house was silent. It was decrepit, with dust caking the chandeliers and in the corners. If anyone had simply walked in, it would have seemed uninhabited.

Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, checking the first two rooms on the landing while Blackwood covered him from behind. There was only one more room on the far side and the door was closed.

Blackwood met Sherlock’s eyes, and he nodded, moving in front of him to the door. Sherlock kept his gun trained on the stairway, just in case.  It appeared that the rest of the house was empty.

Blackwood kicked down the door and entered the room, his gun trained on whomever was inside. Sherlock followed suit.

In the far corner of the room was a woman, huddled into a ball on a stained mattress. She looked terrified, her eyes wide as saucers, and she looked as though she hadn’t washed in weeks. Her dark hair was matted, and she was wearing what amounted to little more than rags.

Blackwood had his eyes trained on her, but his gun was pointed at the only other person in the room.

It was a teenager, no more than sixteen. He was pale, skin and bones, and he had a gun trained on Blackwood-- but his hand was trembling.

Sherlock walked around behind Blackwood, pointing his own gun at the guard. “I’ve got him,” Sherlock said, and Blackwood immediately rushed over to Angie. She looked frightened, but after a moment appeared to recognize him. Letting out a small wail, she clung to him as he spoke to her in hushed tones.

“Don’t come any closer,” the boy said in French. Sherlock evaluated the young man in front of him-- loose grip, untrained, didn’t have the werewithal to shoot--as he walked slowly forward.

“I said stop, or I will shoot,” the boy said, stepping back slightly.

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock said. In one swift motion he knocked the weapon from his hand and pressed his own gun to the boy's forehead.

“Moran really should have a better screening process for his minions. You have never shot anyone in your life.”

Despite the fearful look in the boy's eyes, Sherlock felt no pity. The black rage was still coursing through him, overwhelming the pain, the agony of loss, the emptiness. It had swallowed him whole.

“Sherlock,” Blackwood said from behind him. Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye that Blackwood had put his coat over Angie and was helping her to stand.

“He’s the same as all the rest of them, Will,” Sherlock said without moving a muscle. _He deserves to die._

“Stay here,” Blackwood whispered to Angie, holstering his gun and moving slowly towards Sherlock.

“Stop,” Sherlock warned, pressing the gun into the boy’s forehead until he squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

Blackwood stopped, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He paused for a moment.

“He wouldn’t want this, Sherlock.” Blackwood said so quietly that Sherlock could barely hear him. “John wouldn’t want you to do this. He’s just a fucking kid.”

Sherlock gulped, and it felt like he had swallowed glass. The shards of pain were working through his body, slowly and excruciatingly.

His eyes were starting to blur. "How did you know?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“Doesn’t take a bloody genius to see it, mate.” Blackwood began to move slowly towards Sherlock again, hands still up. Sherlock shook his head, trying to breathe normally and not quite managing it.

Carefully, Blackwood took the gun from him, putting one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder at the same time in a comforting gesture.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet Blackwood’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” Blackwood said.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Clenching his teeth, Sherlock turned on his heel, striding into the hall and across to one of the empty rooms. He paced back and forth, raking his hand through his hair, as the tears started to flow.

It was overwhelming. The agony which had been threatening to boil over ever since he had read the article was pouring through him like burning acid. Unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock crouched on his heels, holding his head in both hands. His whole body was shuddering.

_John. John is gone. He’s gone, and it’s all my fault._

How could there be a world in which John Watson didn’t exist? It was a reality that he had never even contemplated. Was this how John had felt when Sherlock had jumped? If he had… how had he gone on living after this?

Sherlock’s whole body seemed to be breaking into fragments, falling apart bit by bit. Soon all that would be left of him was ashes.

 

* * *

The pain woke John again. He gasped, opening his eyes, squinting against the bright light. He immediately started choking. It felt like there was something down his throat. _Oh fuck. I’m intubated._ The monitor above him started beeping frantically as his pulse elevated. The pain throughout his body was excruciating.

Someone rushed in, pulling the tube out of his throat immediately. There was a lot of commotion around him, but he wasn’t quite able to make it out. Then there was a cup of water in front of him. John took a sip gratefully, wincing at the pain.

It felt like there was a hot poker being inserted into his shoulder and another one on his calf. It was even worse than… _oh bloody hell, not again._ He glanced down, his eyes still having trouble focusing. Everything was shifting and moving shapes. Painkillers. Not that they were doing any sodding good.

He tried to survey the damage. The right side of his neck and his right shoulder was covered in bandages. _Brilliant. Now I have a bullet hole in both shoulders._ Bruising had already spread all over his chest and his breathing was extremely ragged. His lung must have collapsed. He also appeared to have some kind of a wound in his left calf.

“Dr. Watson. John, can you hear me?” John tried to get his eyes to focus. There was a woman in front of him.

“Yes,” he croaked. She handed him the cup, and he took another sip of water. “Hurts,” he rasped.

“You will be in pain for a while, John, but you will recover,” a dry, terse voice said from the opposite end of the room. The nurse moved aside as Mycroft stepped forward. 

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft said, his mouth curling up into a grim smile. Only Mycroft could manage to make a smile seem serious. 

“Mycrof--” John started coughing uncontrollably. 

“Don’t speak. Your body has been through an ordeal. You suffered a shoulder wound, and a simple through and through flesh wound in your calf. You were unconscious for more than a day,” Mycroft said.

John nodded, taking in his surroundings. He was not in the hospital, as he would have assumed. He seemed to be in some kind of bedroom, though there was enough medical equipment to serve five people in much more dire straits than he. 

“Where--” John started to say, hoarsely, but couldn’t quite manage more.

“You are in a safehouse in the country. We moved you as far away from London as was medically safe. No one knows you are here, other than myself and a few medical staff who will never reveal your location. Let’s just say that they have had to treat people in more… precarious situations than even you are.”

John must have looked like he was going to ask another question, because Mycroft paced over to the side of the bed. “You were wounded by Moran as you tried to help that young officer. How he managed not to kill you, I don’t know. But I brought you here so that he could no longer hunt you.” His face became grim. “What you did yesterday was truly foolhardy, John. Slipping past my security detail. You knew that Moran would target you. Anyone would say that you had some kind of death wish. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted this.”

John couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head as the thoughts raged through it. _You keep telling me what Sherlock would want. How the bloody hell would you know? He’s dead. He killed himself without giving a damn what I_ _wanted. I wanted to be with him forever. I tried. I tried to keep living. But it’s pointless without him._  

Mycroft set his mouth even more firmly, reading John’s thoughts in his eyes. “Sherlock wouldn’t want you to throw your life away, John,” he said quietly.

“What, like he did?” John rasped angrily, despite the pain.

Mycroft sighed, seeming resigned. He glanced down, then looked back up at John with one of the most serious expressions John had ever seen from him. “There’s something else, John." John frowned.  _This can’t be good._  

“I had you declared dead. No one knows you are alive, except for a few select people who will keep strict silence. I’m doing this for your safety; Moran has to think he succeeded. You made worldwide news.” He dropped a few papers on the bed. All of the headlines were about the sniper-- and about John.

 _Primrose Sniper Claims Tenth Victim. Wounded Veteran John Watson Latest Victim of Deadly Sniper Attacks._  

John stared at him for a moment, not sure what to do with this information.

“Harry…”

“Your sister will have to be kept in the dark, just like everyone else, for the time being. This is on a complete need-to-know basis.” John’s forehead furrowed, but eventually he nodded. 

“Moran?” he managed to croak. _At least tell me you caught him. He gave away his position when he shot me._

Mycroft shook his head grimly. “Scotland Yard descended on the building he was shooting from immediately, but he was already gone. We have no idea how he escaped.”

John sighed, turning his head away from Mycroft to stare out the window. There was a tree directly outside, its branches swaying slightly in the breeze. 

It didn’t make sense. Moran could have killed John instantly if he had wanted to-- shot him in the head like all the others. But he didn’t. _What does he bloody want?_

“We have a citywide manhunt going right now," Mycroft continued, "But I don’t dare to hope; he’s extremely agile at evading capture. I know of someone--a very capable someone-- who has been tracking him for three years to no avail.”

John didn’t say anything for a moment. Everything had failed. He had failed at dying, and they had failed to catch Moran.

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” John said finally, so quietly it was almost a whisper. A tear left a trail down his cheek.

Mycroft made a noise of exasperation, walking around the bed so that he was directly in front of John’s view. 

He looked down at John with slight irritation and pity.

“Because, John. I promised Sherlock long ago that if anything ever happened to him, I would protect you. I mean to keep that promise.” 

John closed his eyes. _Dammit, Sherlock. All I want, all I ever wanted, was to be with you, and you won’t let me. Even from beyond the grave._

 

* * *

 

_Need to meet. Urgent._

 

Sherlock was sitting propped up against a wall. Blackwood was standing beside him, gazing out the dirt-encrusted window. Sherlock stared down at the text he had just sent, waiting for a reply.

“You don’t have to accompany me, Will,” Sherlock said without looking up. “You fulfilled all of your obligations, your half of the agreement. You can go back to your sister.”

Blackwood grunted, shifting on his feet.

"We’re in this together now, Holmes. Besides, I want to kill him as much as you do."

Sherlock looked up at him. “We might not make it out this time, you know.” _In fact, I intend not to._

Blackwood turned his head, scrutinizing Sherlock with discerning green eyes. He nodded. 

Sherlock nodded back, swallowing loudly. 

Finally the phone pinged. Sherlock opened it so that Blackwood could see.

_Sherlock Holmes, I presume._   
_St. Bart’s rooftop. Tomorrow._   
_You know what time._   
_Bring that turncoat Blackwood._   
_-SM_

Sherlock stared at the screen, then up at Blackwood, who stared back with apprehension. _Fuck. He knows._

 

* * *

Sherlock and Blackwood walked out onto the roof, which appeared to be empty. They crouched low, scanning the area, making sure there wasn’t a trap. Moran could have told them to come here so that he could perch somewhere nearby and target them from afar. After a couple of minutes, they each felt a presence behind them. Their eyes met, and they straightened up slowly.

“Well, hello there, loves,” a silky voice said from behind them. They both turned towards the source, Blackwood drawing his gun and pointing it at Moran.

Moran was leaning against the door to the roof with his arms crossed, a relaxed smile on his face. His messy brown hair was long enough to curl around his ears, which gave him a certain boyishness despite the fact that he was in his mid-thirties. He wasn’t dressed in pseudo-military gear, as Sherlock would have expected-- but rather some jeans and a leather jacket. He still held himself like a soldier, but with an easy confidence that came with many years of knowing that he always held the upper hand in every situation. 

“So. This is where it happened, eh? This is where Jim died,” Moran said when they didn’t answer, his steel-grey eyes surveying the roof. He pushed himself off the door, striding towards them slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock had to resist the urge to pull the gun out of his waistband and shoot him on sight, but Moran undoubtedly had a contingency plan. His eyes flicked over Moran, surveying him. He had a single revolver tucked into the back of his jeans. Appeared to have no further weapons.

“It seems like we always end up here. Isn’t the phrase ‘all roads lead to Rome?’ Should be ‘all roads lead to St. Bart’s’ instead, wouldn’t you say?”

He flounced over to the edge of the roof, looking down. He whistled. “Long drop. I would love to hear the story of how you survived that. Very clever.” He glanced back at Sherlock, who remained immobile. Moran looked down once more, then turned back to them, crossing his arms again. 

“I was here, you know. Three years ago. I was ‘John’s’ assassin. I was just over there, watching.” He waved a hand over his shoulder to a building nearby. “Poor John. He seemed pretty ripped up.” He smiled again, toothily. 

Blackwood spoke first. “Decided not to hide like a coward behind the sight of your rifle today, then, Moran?”

The steel eyes, which were lingering on Sherlock like he was dessert, meandered over to Blackwood. “Well what would the fun in that be?” Moran strode over to Blackwood, who was still pointing his gun at him. Moran seemed unfazed, and made no move to draw his weapon. “But I do have my dogs ready, just as a precaution, you know.” He snapped his fingers. Almost immediately, a few red dots started to dance on Blackwood’s chest. 

Blackwood’s eyes flicked around, but of course there were no snipers to be seen. His eyes met Sherlock’s. He lowered his gun, and the dots disappeared. 

“How very dull of you,” Sherlock said dryly.

Moran tsked, ignoring him. “Blackwood, I’m so disappointed in you. After all we have been to each other?” He batted his eyelashes mockingly. 

“My sister is safe. That’s all I care about,” Blackwood said between clenched teeth.

“Oh I know,” Moran said, rolling his eyes. “I heard about your little raid in Cologne. Bang-up job there. You really gutted that safehouse where she was being held. No survivors. Well, almost none.” His face slid into a grin which made Sherlock’s skin crawl. Blackwood looked at Sherlock uneasily. Sherlock nodded slightly. _That’s why he knew about the phone. That young guard talked._

Moran pursed his lips slightly, looking Blackwood up and down, then turned his back on him. “I must admit, I was surprised at _you_ , Sherlock. It didn’t seem your style. Cold-blooded murder?” 

“It’s not exactly cold-blooded when every single man in that house was ordered to shoot us on sight. We just defended ourselves,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Technicalities,” Moran said, waving a hand in the air. He walked up to Sherlock, uncomfortably close, and spoke so softly that it was almost a whisper. “I thought you were supposed to be the tragic anti-hero, not a commando. Though, you might have been somewhat out of _sorts_ that day? I bet it was because of certain _news_ you received that morning, eh?” Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides, trying not to let his rage boil.

“Aha, a chink in the armor,” Moran said, smirking. “I knew he couldn’t resist trying to stop the final murder, your John. It just _killed_ him that he couldn’t find me and stop the murders. If you’ll excuse the pun,” he said, laughing lightly at his own joke. “He was so keen to save the ‘next victim,’ when of course--”

“He was the intended tenth victim all along. You wounded that officer just to get him into the correct position,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice level but quiet.

Moran’s grin widened slowly. “ _Bravo_. And?”

“You chose that location because it’s where you would have shot him, three years ago, if you had known I survived. Fulfilling Moriarty’s final orders. Of course, you could have killed John dozens of times in the past year. But you were trying to call me out by doing it so symbolically.”

“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! What do we have for him, ladies and gentlemen?” he said in a mock-game-show-host tone, turning on the spot and raising his hands in the air.

Sherlock kept up his cold glare. Moran cocked his head again. “Ah, you’re wondering why I didn’t just shoot him in the head like all the other victims, eh?” 

“I’ll admit, it crossed my mind,” Sherlock spat. 

Moran sighed, affecting disappointment. “I thought you were clever. Maybe you are just ordinary after all, as Jim used to say.” 

He looked Sherlock up and down again, then stepped back slightly, cocking his head to the side. It was all so eerily like Moriarty that it was almost like he was channeling him. 

“So, tell me, Blackwood,” he said, not taking his eyes away from Sherlock. “Did you tell him everything?”

“About Sam Rosewood?” Sherlock said, not giving Blackwood time to respond. “Of course he did.”

“Do tell,” Moran said, with a flourish of his hand.

“You infiltrated the British Military at Moriarty’s request so that you could carry out a mercenary hit on a certain General, but make it look like a heart attack. Sam Rosewood walked in on you when you were killing him in his sleep, by untraceable lethal injection, I assume. A patrol was called before he could make sense of what he saw and before you could murder him quietly. That’s why you shot him, but tried to make it look like part of the battle. Blackwood had to stay on for years to make sure all the loose ends were tied up.”

Moran nodded. “Top marks. And poor Mrs. Rosewood?” He sighed dramatically. 

Blackwood flinched. He had told Sherlock about how they kidnapped Annie, submitting her to psychological torture for years until she had gone completely insane, and had untempered rage against all the doctors in the division. Then they had set her loose. 

“Was just an unintended side effect, but a bonus. So you cultivated her to your needs, once you needed a convenient psychopath to set on John. Moriarty wanted to see… how I would react, if John, specifically, were in danger.”

“Indeed. Blackwood, anything to add?”

Blackwood shook his head once. Sherlock could practically hear his teeth grating from yards away. 

“I think we have chatted long enough then, don’t you?” Moran snapped his fingers again, and the red dots appeared on Sherlock’s and Blackwood’s chests. 

Without blinking, Sherlock and Blackwood drew their guns and pointed them at Moran, who rolled his eyes, then held his hands up. 

“So. What should we do now, Mr. Genius? Bit of an impasse, no? My men will shoot you if you shoot me.”

“No arguments there,” Sherlock said, suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes. _This is where I was supposed to die, three years ago. And this is where you died. I’m ready, John. Now I can be with you again._  

His thoughts were interrupted by Moran starting to laugh hysterically. Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“What could _possibly_ be funny?” Sherlock asked, his voice rising.

“You,” Moran paused long enough to say, wiping his eyes and still giggling. 

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. Moran coughed out another laugh, shaking his head. 

“You and John, both with a death wish, both constantly trying to die to be with the other, when you are both actually still alive. It’s just _classic_. Makes me want to vomit.” 

Sherlock felt his stomach drop out, glancing at Blackwood, who looked at him with questioning eyes. _John… is alive?_ “You’re lying.” 

“What motive would I have to lie? I have you right where I want you, even _willing_ to let me kill you, once and for all. Why would I want you to keep fighting? But those wounds couldn’t have been fatal. I saw through my sight before they surrounded him.” 

Sherlock watched Moran carefully. He didn't appear to be lying. His pupils weren’t dilated, and he had no nervous movement. But he was undoubtedly an excellent liar. “You wounded him minorly on purpose,” Sherlock ventured. 

“Ah, no, actually. No points on that one. I tried to shoot him in the heart at first, because it seemed, I don’t know, poetic," he said with a flourish of his wrist. “After all, he does have your heart.” He smiled again.

"Didn’t quite make it though; I should have realized he had on kevlar under his jacket. Then I tried to shoot him in the carotid artery as a last resort, but he was moving around too much for me to get a clear shot.” He hit himself on the forehead as if annoyed at his own idiocy. “Still, it got you here anyway, so it’s all fine. I’ll just kill him later.”

Sherlock tilted his chin, keeping his indifferent guise in place as much as possible. He didn’t dare to hope. 

“Sherlock,” he heard Blackwood’s deep-tenored voice to his side. He ripped his gaze from Moran long enough to glance at him. 

Blackwood was staring at him with resign. "You have to live, Sherlock. If there is even a chance that he’s telling the truth," he said under his breath, so Moran couldn't hear.

"No, don’t." Sherlock shook his head slightly. 

"Let me do this. I want to do this." 

"We can figure out another way," Sherlock said, his lips barely moving.

Blackwood shook his head. "There is no other way, and you know it. I never expected to get out of this alive. But you can. Thank you for getting Angie out of hell. I owe you everything." Then Blackwood smiled, and yelled, “Vatican cameos!” 

What happened next occurred so quickly that it was all a blur. Sherlock turned and sprinted to the shelter of the doorway, bullets hitting the roof on both sides of him. Blackwood emptied his clip into Moran, and a volley of sniper shots hit Blackwood in the chest. By the time Sherlock reached safety and looked back, Moran’s body had disappeared-- must have fallen over the ledge, there were screams from below-- and Blackwood had turned towards him, sunk to his knees. His whole body was riddled with bullets. 

Sherlock stared in horror, fighting the urge to run out from behind the cover. Blackwood’s eyes met his, and his face lifted into a half grin. 

Using his last, shaking breath, he said, “Find him,” before he crumpled to the roof. 

Then there was only the silence, and a twittering sound of a sparrow.

 

* * *

Sherlock let the phone ring twice, hung up, then dialed the number again. “Sherlock,” a terse voice answered. 

“Is John alive? Tell me. _Now._ ” 

"Pleasant to hear your voice as well, brother." Annoyed tone.

"Mycroft!”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, he’s alive. I had him declared dead to keep him safe from Moran. Which, incidentally, I would have told you weeks ago if you hadn’t destroyed the satellite phone so that I couldn’t reach or locate you.” 

Sherlock’s whole body went slack in relief, and he pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the booth. He felt like he could breathe for the first time in weeks. _He’s alive. John’s alive._

“You didn’t happen to have anything to do with Moran’s death, did you? Or with a certain… William Blackwood? You must have vacated the scene before police arrived.” 

Sherlock swallowed, his throat making a strange noise. “I was there. Will you… I want to bury him. Blackwood. Don’t send him off to the bureaucrats. And I need you to have your men bring Angela Blackwood back to London. She is registered under the pseudonym Maria Nightgrove at Saint-Luc University Hospital in Brussels. Have her put in a safehouse.” 

“Very well, Sherlock. Are you going to tell me why I am doing all of this, or am I wasting my breath?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. “Where’s John?”

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. “Once he heard of Moran’s demise, he wanted to visit your grave.” 

Silence. “Sherlock?”

Click. Dial tone.

 

* * *

John stood in front of Sherlock’s grave for what felt like the hundredth time, leaning on a cane with his good hand. He hated it here. It was too quiet. It wasn’t like Sherlock. He would have been unbelievably bored.

Now there was another gravestone next to it. John tried not to look at it. It was eerie, maudlin, seeing his own name on a gravestone. Mycroft had had to go through with the funeral charade, not knowing how long John would have to hide.

At least Harry had known where John would have wanted to be buried, next to Sherlock. John wondered fleetingly whether Mycroft had put anything in the casket. _Best not ask._

Despite Mycroft’s protestations, he had wanted to come. What did it matter now? His wounds were healing (ish). Moran was dead. His body had fallen off the roof of St. Barts hours ago, and they had even caught the backup snipers who had been perched nearby. It was still unclear what the Blackwood bloke had to do with anything, or why he killed Moran. Might have just been some disgruntled employee. Or a hit man. Who knows. 

He was safe; there was no one left to hunt him. But John wasn’t ready to announce to the world that he was alive. Maybe it was because it still felt like he was actually dead.

_It’s over now, Sherlock. Moriarty is gone. Moran is gone. You’re gone. Now there’s only me._

He heard the slight rustling of footsteps behind him. He sighed. “I want to be alone right now, Mycroft.”

The footsteps stopped but didn’t retreat. John sighed again, and turned around warily. What he saw then almost made him collapse to the ground.

It was Sherlock. John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He was still there.

Sherlock, in what looked like nondescript army fatigues. Appeared as if he hadn’t eaten, slept or showered in weeks. His dark curls were greasy and unkempt, and he had stubble on his cheeks. His eyes had a hollow, almost manic look to them as they darted all over John hungrily.

_Am I having a hallucination? Did I pass out from trying to walk too soon and start dreaming this?_

John started walking towards Sherlock haltingly, in a daze. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled in concern as they flicked over John’s injuries. He walked a few steps to help close the gap. 

 

* * *

As he turned a corner and could see John from afar, Sherlock stopped short. After so long, he was finally here. It was unfathomable.

John was standing at the graves-- their graves. Sherlock's throat felt raw, and he couldn't quite swallow. He forced himself to continue forward.

"I want to be alone right now, Mycroft," John said over his shoulder.

Sherlock paused. For once in his life, Sherlock didn't know what to say. John sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, and turned around.

John's eyes widened and he blinked a few times, as if he couldn't quite believe what he had seen. He started limping towards Sherlock, who automatically wanted to reach out to steady him.

Once they were face to face, Sherlock reached out with a hand with hesitation, unable to find the words to encompass three years of loss, of yearning, of despair. Visions of John shot by Moran, bleeding out on the cold pavement. 

All he could manage to say was, “Hello, John.” 

John stared at him unbelievingly for another moment. Then his face morphed into anger and he spat, “You bloody tosser,” dropping his cane in one swift motion and punching Sherlock in the mouth. Sherlock reeled, his hand moving up to his lip (bleeding) and he saw black dots in front of his eyes for a moment. Once his vision cleared, he looked down. John was kneeling in front of him, his hands clinging to Sherlock’s hips. His cheek was pressed against Sherlock’s stomach, and he was shuddering.

Sherlock kneeled immediately, taking John’s face in both of his hands. “John...” He was vaguely aware that tears were streaming down his own face as he leaned in to kiss John.

John wrenched himself free and stood up as quickly as he could, limping away. 

"Wait! John, please!" Sherlock sprang up, running to cut in front of him. John halted, his face contorting, then slowly looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder to stop him from moving away again. 

“John, let me explain--” 

John interrupted him. “Just ‘Hello, John’? That’s it? After three years? You were alive this _whole time_? Do you have any idea…” John choked, looking away.

“I did it to save you--” 

“You were _dead_ , Sherlock!” John pointed at the grave ten metres away, and Sherlock winced. “I _buried_ you! You were gone. You promised me… that you would never… leave me.” John clasped his hand over his eyes and swayed slightly on his feet, then started to limp away. Sherlock’s heart lurched sideways. This was not going as he had planned.

Sherlock took a few hesitant steps toward him. “John, please... Moriarty was going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn’t jump. I had no choice.” 

John stopped short, turning to look at him in shock. “Wh-what?” 

Sherlock nodded, tears spilling over in his eyes as John closed the gap between them again. 

“I had… I had to save you,” Sherlock murmured.

John shook his head in disbelief. “Wait, Moran’s death this morning-- was that you?” 

Sherlock’s mouth set in a grim line. “Yes.”

“And Blackwood? Was he working for Moran?” 

Sherlock felt a flicker of pain. “No, Blackwood… was with me. He helped me, in more ways than one. He saved my life. I’ll explain everything, I promise.” 

John hesitated, then put his hand up on Sherlock’s cheek. His breath caught, as if he had been expecting to only touch air, not flesh and blood. “My god. It’s really you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at the feeling of John’s fingertips against his skin. It was something he had imagined over and over again in his darkest moments.

“It’s really you,” John whispered again. “I can’t believe it.”

“I thought you were dead.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, the lurching feeling in his heart returning. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” John said bitterly, dropping his hand. “You think a couple of weeks was bad, try three years.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and the pain was ripped open anew when he saw the expression on John’s face. “I-- I’m sorry, John--”

John shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, then opening them again. “Me first. I know you don’t care about expressions of sentiment, but let me get this out.” His fingers moved down Sherlock’s neck and he fingered the collar of Sherlock’s shirt. It was as if he feared that Sherlock would disappear without tactile proof of his continued existence. 

John’s eyes were focused on Sherlock’s chest, and he spoke quietly. “I never stopped loving you. Even though you stopped loving me, and then you… were gone. I tried to move on, but the world just seemed to have lost its colour. It all seemed meaningless. Eventually, I didn’t care anymore if I lived or died.” 

John's bright blue eyes wandered back up to Sherlock’s face. He gulped. “I won’t hold you to anything. The fact that you are alive is more than I could have ever hoped for. But I had to say it.” He released Sherlock’s collar and broke his gaze. 

Sherlock looked down at him in horror, shaking his head. _You still believe that I don’t love you?_

“No, no, John, you don’t understand. I had to lie. I was trying to keep you at a distance so that Moriarty wouldn’t use you against me. Which obviously failed," he added bitterly.

Sherlock clasped John’s face in his hands again. “I never stopped loving you either. I couldn’t erase that if I tried. Surely you can see that? It nearly killed me that you believed the lie, and so quickly.” His voice cracked with emotion.

John looked up at him with hollow eyes. “Of course I believed it. It never made sense, you and me. How could someone as... brilliant, beautiful, terrifying and amazing, in every way, be meant for someone like me?” John turned his head over his shoulder. 

Sherlock tried to pull John’s face around, his forehead furrowed. “Really, John. Do keep up. Surely you know it’s completely the opposite?” John shook his head again, and started to back away. His whole body radiated with hurt.

 _No. Wrong. All wrong. John. How can I make you see?_ Suddenly, with a moment of clarity, Sherlock pulled out his old phone. He opened his inbox, and held it out to John, who looked at him incredulously. “Please, John, just look. Please.”

John took the phone and glanced at the screen, his face slowly turning to awe. He scrolled down. It was every single text he had sent Sherlock after his ‘death.’ He had saved them all.

John looked up at him in shock. “You got them? My texts? All of them?”

Sherlock nodded, a tear rolling down his high cheekbone and making a track to his chin. “They gave me hope. Every single one I got from you, I typed a message in response, even though I couldn’t send it.”

He grabbed the phone, clicked a few buttons, then handed it back to John. There were dozens of unsent messages: _I love you too, John. Forever, always. I will come back to you. I promise._

John stared at the phone, then back at Sherlock. His disbelief was palpable, but was starting to crumble at the edges. “You… why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just tell me that we had to pretend we weren’t together? That you had to fake your death? I thought...” 

Sherlock stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a lower tenor, causing John to shiver. “I love you, John. But one of the things I love about you is that your emotions are easily discernable. Moriarty would have seen right through it. You had to believe it. As devastating as it was, as much as I abhorred it, had to make you believe all of it.”

John looked up at him with a glimmer of hope, his eyes full of vulnerability. “You still...?” he asked after a second, plaintively. The last two words hung in the air like a promise.

“Always, forever,” Sherlock said huskily, grasping John’s hip with one hand and his face with the other. John let out a half-strangled sob. He pulled Sherlock to him and tilted his head up until their lips found each other. 

Their hands scrabbled for each other as they each tried to feel every part of the other’s body, re-memorizing each other. Their tongues twisted together, and they tasted the salt from each other’s tears as they fell. John twisted his good hand into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him even closer, and their bodies were soon pressed together completely. They lost themselves in each other, trying to erase their memories of despair and loneliness, letting it all flow into their embrace.

John whimpered slightly and pulled back, looking up at Sherlock.  Sherlock blinked back his remaining tears, unable to look away. 

“I must look a fright,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

John shook his head, putting his hand on Sherlock’s cheek again and running his thumb over the cheekbone. Sherlock sighed in pleasure at the familiar gesture.

“I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life," John murmured. He kissed Sherlock once more, and rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock encircled him with his arms-- careful to avoid John’s shoulder wound-- and closed his eyes. He stroked John’s hair with one hand.

“I had given up hoping,” John said. Sherlock’s forehead furrowed.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he whispered.

“I think I might have an idea,” John murmured quietly. They stood silently, listening to each other breathing, feeling their two beating, living hearts pumping against each other’s chests.

Finally, after an eternity and no time at all, Sherlock released John, and took his hand. “Let’s go home,” he said softly. John nodded. They turned their backs on the two empty graves and walked away.

 

* * *

John felt himself starting to rise to consciousness as the sunlight crept over his face. _No, just a little longer. I don’t want to wake up yet._ He fought it, trying to keep himself in the dream: that Sherlock was back, and he was curled up in his arms.

A car backfired somewhere outside, and the loud noise forced him awake. He blinked his eyes open, then choked back a noise of surprise. 

Directly in front of him was Sherlock’s face, relaxed in sleep. The dark eyelashes were fluttering against his gaunt, pearly cheekbones. There were dark smudges under his eyes, almost like bruises, which John knew from experience would only appear under severe sleep deprivation. 

It wasn’t a dream. Sherlock was still there. They were both still there. 

John gulped, trying to keep himself from making any noise. Sherlock needed the rest. Without disturbing him, John managed to snuggle himself a little closer. He rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his favourite spot. He inhaled deeply. Sherlock's scent was just like he remembered, though it now held an undercurrent of tobacco. He had obviously been smoking while he was gone. Somehow, it made him smell even better. _I’d better not tell him that._

After contacting Mycroft (who had, apparently, paid to keep 221B vacant this whole time for Sherlock’s eventual return), Sherlock and John had gone straight back to the flat from the cemetery. It had just seemed right, somehow. 

While Sherlock had taken an interminably long shower, John had tried to calm a hyperventilating Mrs. Hudson down.  He explained as much of what had happened as possible. After all, she had thought them both dead, had been to both of their funerals. They should have known that turning up at her doorstep, like phantoms in the flesh, would be a bit of a shock. She seemed to be taking it rather well, considering. 

When she had recovered enough, she had found some extra sheets and helped John make the bed. “Now I’m just doing this once, I’m not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson warned, fluffing a pillow and straightening the sheet. John had chuckled, shaking his head. _Some things never change._ It was oddly comforting. 

“I’m sorry I only have one set, I can search in the linen closet for more if you will be needing two.” 

John had smiled down at her, almost unable to believe what he was about to say. “No, we will be just fine with one, Mrs. Hudson.” She had nodded distractedly, about to walk away, then stopped, his words sinking in. She turned back to him slowly, tears springing to her eyes anew.

“Really? Oh, darling. I always hoped… well, you know.” John had smiled even wider and pulled her into a hug.

After a moment, she had pulled away, wiping her eyes. “Look at me, all blubbery. I’d better be going, then, leave you two…” she had started to say, leaving him with a watery grin. 

John had undressed, took one of his painkillers, and lay down gingerly to rest, waiting for Sherlock. Before he knew it, he had been sound asleep. Sherlock must have crawled into bed and wrapped him in his arms without waking him. 

They had apparently slept all afternoon and well into the next morning. John could barely even feel the pain from his wounds anymore. It was either gone, or irrelevant. The hole in his chest, the emptiness, had completely disappeared as if they never were. Sherlock was here. Starved, exhausted, with a new sorrow in his eyes that was not faded yet, but here. 

John wanted nothing more than to kiss him again. _I shouldn’t. I should let him sleep._ But as he looked up at Sherlock’s beautiful, angular (now-shaved) face, he couldn’t help it. He moved forward, slowly, until their lips met. He felt himself shiver, his entire body feeling warmer already. 

Though his eyes were still closed, Sherlock's lips opened and he started to respond. His hand moved up to John’s face and pulled him closer. He was kissing John back in his sleep.

John smiled. He reached under the sheet, his hand trailing down Sherlock’s chest and stomach and under his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, but he emitted a lingering moan against John’s mouth. John moved down to grasp Sherlock by the hips, pulling down his bottoms slightly. Watching Sherlock’s face, he enveloped Sherlock’s hardening erection with his lips.

After a few moments, Sherlock gasped, his eyes finally flying open. “ _John_ ,” he gasped, “I thought I was dream-- what are you _doing_?” 

John twirled his tongue around once, then released his cock momentarily. He grinned. “I should think it's rather obvious.” He pulled the pyjamas all the way down Sherlock’s legs and threw them to the floor. 

Before Sherlock could respond, John dipped down again for a few long pulls, taking his cock deep into his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this. 

“John,” Sherlock panted, “wait, let me. Your injuries.” John flicked his tongue against the glans, then raised his head.

“I’m fine. Really. It’s a dull ache at this point. Anyway, I think I would rather you do something else.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock was watching him with dark eyes, a slight flush over his pale cheeks. He looked positively delectible.

John crawled up the lanky (still too bony) body until he was lying directly on top of Sherlock, and he kissed him languorously.

After a moment he leaned back. “Use your imagination,” he said, smiling lazily.

“I don’t have to,” Sherlock said, smirking back. “It’s obvious from your body language, and frankly your pheromones are--” John snorted and cut him off with another kiss. Sherlock reached up to grasp John’s arms (carefully avoiding his bandaged shoulder) and pulled him downward, flipping them over so that he was on top. 

John was still wearing pants, so Sherlock started to slip them down slowly without breaking away from John’s lips. He kissed John hungrily, sucking his bottom lip. He grasped John’s cock with one hand and started to stroke him, slowly but firmly, the way he knew John liked. John groaned, his hips starting to move involuntarily. 

After a minute or two, John broke away. “Fuck, we don’t have any--”

“Apt choice of wording, though incorrect,” Sherlock interrupted.

“I forgot how you get quippy in bed,” John laughed, still delirious with happiness. Sherlock gave him a mock-stern look, reaching over to the bedside table and pulling out a bottle, then tossing it on the bed. 

“You can’t possibly-- Sherlock, that has to be three years old!” 

“It’s not three years old. I got it at the shop last night while you were sleeping.  I assumed we would soon be engaging in some activities requiring it.” He leaned down to kiss the soft spot behind John’s ear, one thumb and forefinger teasing John’s nipple at the same time. 

John sighed in pleasure, grasping Sherlock’s shoulder. “God, those painkillers must be stronger than I thought. I didn’t notice a thing.”  Sherlock mumbled something in response, but his mouth was now otherwise engaged somewhere around John’s collarbone.   

“What… woke you up,” John panted. 

“Irrelevant.” John could tell from his tone that he was hiding something. 

“Tell me.” Sherlock raised his head, leaning down to kiss John once, then pulling back.

“I had a nightmare. About you being shot by Moran. I've had it before, even before Moran wounded you. Almost like a premonition, if you believe in such things.” The primal fear, the desperation, flickered in his vibrant heterochromatic eyes again. He glanced down, his jaw working as he swallowed.

“Sherlock,” John choked, his stomach clenching. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise."John grasped Sherlock's face, forcing him to look upwards. 

“The only thing I have ever truly feared.. more than my own death… was losing you forever,” Sherlock whispered.

John couldn’t speak for a moment. “Me too,” he finally managed to say, lifting his head up slightly. Sherlock dipped down to kiss him at the same time. Their tongues sought each other with insatiable need, each of them trying to convince the other of his continued existence.

Eventually, Sherlock grabbed the bottle, pouring a generous amount on his palm. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock moved one of John’s legs to rest on his shoulder, then reached down with his still-slick fingers to prepare John.

“Oh, god,” John murmured. Sherlock leaned down to kiss him deeply as he put his nimble musician’s fingers to good use, putting pressure where John would feel it most.

John felt his hips leaning into the touch, and suddenly he couldn't wait any longer.  “Sherlock, I need you, now. Please,” he said plaintively. He was aching for Sherlock, and only one thing could satiate the need.

Sherlock hesitated. "Do you want..." his forehead crinkled slightly. 

"Condom?" John finished for him, unbelieving for a moment. He exhaled, averting his eyes. "If-- if you want. I didn't have... I mean... if you did..." he felt a flush rising up his throat.  _Stupid. Why would I think that Sherlock had never been with anyone when he was gone? Just because I could never..._

"John," Sherlock said sternly, pulling him upward by the chin until their gazes met again. "There was no one else. While I was gone. There was never even a thought of someone else."

John felt the tears rising to his eyes, and blinked them back. "Me neither," he said, softly. 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile. He leaned down to kiss John once more, before slicking his cock quickly with lube. He eased himself slowly into John, moaning softly. John gasped. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

“Too much? It’s been a while…” 

“No. All. Now.” John managed to say. “Need... all of you.” Sherlock nodded, then nipped at John’s throat, starting to thrust and rotate his hips slowly. John closed his eyes, tilting his hips up even further to accept him.

Sherlock worked his way up to kissing John’s cheeks, his eyelids. “John, John, I love you. God, I love you,” he said between kisses.

John couldn’t speak. He was too overwhelmed by the fact that Sherlock was here again, in his arms, that he still loved him. Everything that he thought had been lost to him forever.  _You are more than I ever wanted. You made me whole again.  I love you._  

"More," John panted. "Please."

Sherlock kissed the tears from John’s cheeks as he went deeper, and John steadied himself with his hand on the headboard, clutching Sherlock's shoulder with the other. Sherlock's long curls brushed his forehead, and his warm breath unfurled over John's face as he started to thrust into him. 

John felt himself getting close, but he didn't want it to end. "Wait," he gasped. Sherlock paused, and John used his hands to push himself up, slowly, until he was sitting on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock was gazing up at him with a beatific expression. He kissed Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock exhaled slowly. Then John started to slowly move himself up and down on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock enveloped John’s mouth with his, grabbing John’s hair with both hands. John was in more control in this position, and he took advantage of it, rocking backward and thrusting down hard. 

“Down,” John panted after a few minutes, starting to move faster, and Sherlock lay back so that John was straddling him. 

“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock groaned, grasping John by the hips John’s head fell back as he moved and ground his hips downward. Sherlock bent his knees so that he could respond in kind, pushing his hips upward while stroking John’s erection with one hand. 

“Tell me you’re mine, only mine,” John panted.

“I’m yours. You’re mine. Forever,” Sherlock breathed, his back arching slightly.  "I'm... not going to last... it's been too long..."

“I know, me too. Come for me, love,” John said breathlessly, twisting his hips down several more times.

“ _John_!” Sherlock cried, his hips making one last thrust as he came, throwing his head back, as John spilled over onto Sherlock’s hand with a cry of his own.

John fell backward slightly, his limbs going limp, but Sherlock sat up and clasped him, holding him. John’s cheek was pressed against Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. 

John felt nothing but bliss. It was almost ethereal. The world was right again. After three years of a surreality, a world in which Sherlock didn’t exist, he felt like he was finally back on the right side of the looking glass.

Eventually, he became aware of his surroundings again. He was still on Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock was holding him tightly. Neither of them seemed eager to move. John kissed Sherlock's sweaty forehead and combed his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls. “You need a haircut, I think,” he murmured. Sherlock mumbled something indistinguishable in response. John smiled.

“You know, it _almost_ makes it all worth it. Being separated from you, thinking you were dead for three years.”

Sherlock raised his head slightly, his eyes glazed. “Oh? Why is that?”

John’s lips twitched into a smile. “Because we got to have a truly mind-blowing reunion shag.”

Sherlock chortled, and John kissed him again lightly as he eased himself off Sherlock's lap. He stood, then turned back to see Sherlock's lanky, beautiful body still spread over the bed. His breath caught slightly at the sight. "I'm going to shower," he said, and Sherlock's forehead wrinkled, as if he didn't want John to leave, even to go to the next room.

He held out his hand. "Care to join me?" Sherlock's lips twitched upward into a half-grin, and he took John's hand.

 


	2. Epilogue

 

John blinked himself awake.  _Sherlock?_  The other half of the bed was empty.

John rubbed his eyes, sitting up. It was disconcerting, waking up in the evening after sleeping all afternoon. Sherlock often got up before he did, but it seemed odd that he was already awake, considering they had just finished a case that morning after several sleepless nights. He usually collapsed for days after a run like that.

His phone pinged from the bedside table. Yawning, he grabbed it to read the text.

_Went out for milk._   
_Didn’t want to wake you._   
_Just got text re. new case._   
_Meet me at the lab._   
_-SH_

_Bugger. Another one?_ He had been hoping they might take some time off and relax, and he had even thought of trying to convince Sherlock to go on holiday. He and Harry still had use of their family cottage in the country and he had been trying to get Sherlock to go there with him for months. Something-- a case, usually-- had always come up. 

John sighed, disappointed, and got up to dress.  _Another time then._

 

* * *

John finally arrived at St. Bart’s, yawning as he got out of the cab.  _I should have gotten a coffee,_  he thought, slightly irritated. All of this nonstop work was really starting to wear him thin. 

As he turned the corner, he saw Molly down the hall. “Oy, Molly! You helping us with this new case then?”

She turned around, looking at him with the widest smile he had ever seen. “Case? Oh, um… yes, the  _case_. Right. Um. Be right with you. Just have to go… check on a body.” She beamed at him again, then walked off quickly.

 _Sherlock must be rubbing off on her_ , John thought, shaking his head.  _Next she’ll be dancing around the lab and saying ‘it’s Christmas,’ when there’s a serial killer on the loose._  

John shook his head and pushed open the door to the lab. His breath caught in his throat at the sight in front of him.

The lights were out, and all of the lab equipment was put away. In its place, the entire room was filled with candles: on all of the labtops and lining the walls, giving the place an iridescent glow.

“What the hell?” John said, not sure what exactly was going on.  _Sherlock must be doing some kind of strange experiment to see how much fire can be in one room without actually burning the place down._

“Not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” Sherlock’s deep-tenored voice preceded him as he walked out from behind some shelves of lab equipment. He was wearing a sharp black suit with the purple shirt-- John’s favourite. His eyes almost seemed to glow in the half-light. 

“Wha- what’s going on, Sherlock? Is this some kind of experiment for the case?” 

Sherlock sauntered towards him, his mouth crooking up into his half-smile. “No, John. There is no case. You see but you don’t observe.”

John just continued to look at him, flabbergasted. Sherlock walked over until he was towering over John, then took his hands. 

“Do you know what day it is, John?” he said softly, looking at their hands.

“Er, Tuesday?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now you are just being deliberately obtuse.”

John squinted up at him. “Um… January 29th. Am I forgetting something?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Five years ago today, in this very spot, is where we met.”

John gaped at him. “You… remember what day we met?”

“Of course.”

“You can’t even remember your own birthday.”

“The date of my birth is irrelevant. This day, however, is what brought me to you. I find birthdays completely pointless, because every day each of us is one day older. Anniversaries are the same; why celebrate being with you one day a year, when every day is one more day I get to spend with you? How would that not be worth celebrating?”

As he was speaking, he stepped a little closer, dropping his tone even lower, which caused a frisson of energy to run through John’s body. Even after all this time, he still felt a vibrating pulse of electricity when Sherlock touched him. 

Now they were so close that John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his face. “Before that day, I never knew what it meant to feel like one half of a whole. I preferred living in the cerebral realm, solving cases, keeping myself above what I considered to be the paltry relationships and messy contradictions of emotion. I only cared for the work. I considered everything else to be a weakness.”

John nodded, a knot starting to form in his throat for some reason.

Sherlock smiled. “But then, here, all those years ago, I met you. At first, I thought of you as another puzzle to solve: helping cure your limp, your PTSD-- but I was completely and utterly wrong. From that moment you shot the serial-murderer-cabbie in my defense, I started to realize that you were the most complicated enigma in the universe. Until then, I didn’t care if I put myself in mortal danger. In fact, I lived for the thrill, the high, like the first sting of the needle. My brain was like a steam engine: manic, overstimulated, always pushing forward at thousands of kilometers an hour. Only the needle could slow it down, and that was temporary. As the days, weeks, months went on, I started to realize that… for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with you. Sometimes-- not always, but often enough-- you made my brain stop whirling, and I just wanted to be in the present moment, you by my side. And all of that terrified me. When you were unbelievably brave that day after the Rosewood case, and I pushed you away, I thought I was saving you. But I was also utterly petrified of the fact that I wanted--  _needed_ \-- you, as well.”

He glanced down, his lip trembling slightly. John involuntarily reached up to touch Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock sniffed, looking back up at John. “I wish I could take back all the pain I caused you. Convincing you that I didn’t care for you, to save you from Moriarty. My absence for three years. But I hope… that I can offset those years by giving you the rest of my life.”

John’s mouth started to open in shock, as he started to realize what was actually happening.

Sherlock took his hand from John’s, and reached into his coat pocket. He took something out and pressed it into John’s palm.

“So, if I may… Dr. John Hamish Watson, would you do me the utmost honor of being my husband?” He released John’s hand, uncovering two simple platinum bands. Beautiful, clean cut, classic. Just like Sherlock. John stared down at them for several moments, his entire body so filled with joy that he was unable to speak.

“John?” John glanced up at Sherlock, who had the tiniest tinge of apprehension in his eyes. John closed the rings in his hand and reached up with the other, tangling it in Sherlock’s hair and kissing him as deeply as humanly possible. Sherlock sighed with relief, and pulled John to him by the hips. 

Sherlock pulled back just slightly, still holding on tightly. “Is that an acceptance?” he said softly.

“Really, Sherlock, do keep up,” John quipped. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you want me to actually say it?” 

“Well, since I actually went to the trouble of putting together this archaic ritual, yes, I would.”

John rolled his eyes, smiling up at Sherlock giddily. “Yes, Sherlock, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. I had no intention of doing anything else.” He kissed him briefly, then laughed.

“Now what?” 

“Well, I thought we might go to that cottage of yours for a week or so. If you would like. I already have our bags packed. Harry gave me the keys, with the caveat that she would break several of my extremities if I ever…  I think the phrase was, ‘scarpered,’ again.” 

John’s lips curled up into a smile. “Sherlock Holmes, I might make a romantic out of you yet.”

Sherlock’s face twitched into a grin, and John enveloped the smile with a kiss. As always, their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly, and this time John was never letting go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 THE END


End file.
